


Always Knew I'd Fall

by yelp



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Bonding, Family Issues, Guns, M/M, Post-Canon, skeet shooting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:47:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yelp/pseuds/yelp
Summary: Kid studied Hiruma with skepticism. "You ever shot skeet before?""I've shot all kinds of shit before," Hiruma said blithely, going to the puller's station and finding the many-buttoned switch box dangling from its wire. "What do you push to make the fucking frisbees come out?"*Despite everything, Kid is still inextricably tied to the competitive shooting world, and hates it. Naturally, Hiruma tags along to see what all the fuss is about.
Relationships: Hiruma Youichi/Mushanokouji "The Kid" Shien
Comments: 8
Kudos: 24
Collections: Fic In A Box





	Always Knew I'd Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Senri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senri/gifts).



> "Running for my life  
> And never looking back  
> In case there's someone  
> Right behind to shoot me down  
> And say he always knew I'd fall"
> 
> \- ["Where I Want to Be"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f8tfnVAJDRU), _Chess_

It was one matter to hang up his gun and declare himself done with competitive shooting for good. It was another to escape its clutches entirely, as Kid quickly found out. No matter how hard he tried to run from it, it was still in his blood, in his family, and there were _expectations_.

Even more lethal, there was _gossip_.

That was why, during competition season, he still spent weekends helping out with tournaments: organizing them, running errands, keeping up connections with a community that had ostracized him. He had to do at least that much, for his father. 

What he didn't know was why, in the summer before his third year, he began to see a familiar blond head cropping up at them too. 

The first time, Hiruma only stood with the milling spectators, and Kid tried to reason it away.

Hiruma had a thing for guns, didn't he? Maybe he had only come to laugh at these regimented competitions, which must have seemed so ritualistic to him. The formality, the strict rules, the inevitable drama. 

Kid tried to ignore him, despite his misgivings—which turned out to be a mistake. It usually did.

Bolder the second time, Hiruma marched right up to Kid where he was elbows deep in registration, and sat down on his folding table, squishing some important forms under his ass. 

It was an outdoor rifle event, and registration was held on the grassy area downwind of the range, by the parking lot. There was a small awning set up, but Kid shared its meager cover with the refreshments stands and ID check. The shade that had blessed him earlier in the morning had slanted off by now, leaving him grateful for the wide brim of his hat against the scorching sun. When Hiruma's behind came down on the table, the lanky shadow actually brought him a modicum of relief.

"If you're looking to register, there's a line." Kid gestured out to the waiting competitors, each holding a gun in a slip case, slung over a shoulder or clasped in two arms. Most of them were practically children, since it was the junior league that was scheduled to start on the next hour. All of them looked at Hiruma with reproach. 

"So this is where you've been hanging out, you fucking eyebrows," Hiruma said, cracking his gum. "Reliving your glory days?"

Hiruma knew everything about Kid's past—he was one of the few in Kid's current life that did. He knew that Kid had buckled under the pressure at his last tournament, years ago, and never entered another one. These days, he was nothing but a washed-up has-been, a dutiful ghost tethered to the shooting world by obligation alone.

Hiruma knew all that.

Which meant that Hiruma was here to mock him.

"Family duty," said Kid mildly, leaning around Hiruma's torso to wave the next registrant over.

"That your fucking old man over there? Who's the brat?" 

Kid followed the direction of Hiruma's pointed finger to find, indeed, his father. 

Mushanokouji Hajime was chatting with the other judges, and had a possessive hand on the shoulder of the young boy standing with him, Koutarou. Kid recognized him, but everyone here would. Everyone other than Hiruma, apparently. 

The current darling of the junior leagues, Koutarou had risen meteorically through the ranks from his first appearance, and was easily slated to take home the gold medal today. Come to think of it, he was around the same age Kid had been, when he'd given up the sport. 

His father said something to the other judges, and they all laughed. Koutarou clutched his slip case to his chest, nervously beaming. 

"Don't call him a brat," said Kid. "You should see him shoot skeet."

"Oh?" Hiruma's sharp eyes fell on the flyers behind Kid's elbow, listing upcoming events. The skeet tournament was a prominent splash across the top. "Maybe I will."

Then he hopped off the table and walked off, blowing his gum as he went. 

Kid had a bad feeling about this, a very bad feeling indeed. But he was soon inundated with hopeful registrants, and couldn't spare it another thought. 

***

Unlike most tournaments, which were either indoors, or held on a fixed range, the skeet tournament took place on an expansive, 20-station course. Only a few of them were in-use today, which meant that the rest were just quiet wooden shelters built into nature, offering glimpses of some rolling hill or picturesque gap in the woods. Kid spent most of the tournament acting as general support, shunting from one end of the course to the other, and in the stretches between active stations, he actually found the stroll rather peaceful. 

That was, until Hiruma popped up. 

Literally, from behind a tree.

"You're going to get shot," Kid said, refusing to be startled. Hiruma had once again appeared in the early afternoon, this time shortly after the junior division was underway. There were literally dozens of teenagers around, armed with shotguns, and Hiruma was just prancing around in the trees like wild game. 

"Delivering a fucking pizza?" Hiruma nodded at the pallet of boxes in Kid's arms.

Kid rolled his eyes, and continued on his way. "Spare shells. They're running low at station 20." He didn't have the time to spare standing around to figure out what Hiruma was up to. 

"Fucking stupid brats," Hiruma cackled, falling into step with Kid. "Can't even bring enough ammo. Basic mistake."

Hiruma had a shotgun on him, which was a little surprising. Normally he went for something automatic, with more firepower. Shock factor too, for that matter. This one actually looked like the regulation 12-gauge break-action recommended for the course. Had he stolen it from one of the competitors? 

"You can't carry it like that." Kid waved a greeting at a passing gaggle of teens coming back from their station, trying to project normalcy. 

"Like what?"

"'Actions open and empty,'" Kid quoted. He didn't suspect Hiruma would know the first thing about gun safety, so he motioned to the group that had just passed. "Like them."

Hiruma snorted, derisive, but he cracked the action open, so it was obvious the chambers were empty—oh wait, no, now he was dumping two shells out into his palm. The thing had been loaded after all.

"Hiruma," Kid said tightly, "You can't walk around with a loaded gun. There are _children_ here."

"Well I know that _now_ ," Hiruma said, hooking the bent-open shotgun over his shoulder, stock behind him, muzzle pointing down and in front, doing a passable impression of a normal, safe competitor. 

Strange, that Hiruma was so cheerfully abiding by the rules today, when normally he seemed more apt to fire his guns at will—rules, children, or no. But as Kid always told himself, nothing good ever came of trying to analyze Hiruma's motives, and he wasn't about to start now. Only madness that way lay. And headaches.

"If you do that again, I'll have you thrown out of here."

"Aye aye," said Hiruma breezily. "You're the man with the pizza boxes."

Station 20 was the toughest shot of the day, and it was also where his father was judging. Kid set the boxes of shells down on the dwindling stack, glad he had gotten here in time. They were down to half a box in the stand, and only a couple more out here.

He glanced around at the waiting children, and spotted Koutarou standing to the side, checking his gun in its slip. He was up next, and looked ready to faint. 

Kid thought about saying something to him, a word of comfort or empathy, but decided he was better off keeping his silence. No one talked to him at these things, whether they knew his history directly, or they'd just picked up the habit from those who did. He was basically a pariah, a zombie. A zombie who still carried stuff. 

Speaking of which, it was probably time to check back in for more tasks.

He made to leave, but Hiruma nudged him. "Don't you want to see?"

Kid gave him a questioning look, and Hiruma tipped his chin at Koutarou.

Unbelievable.

Hiruma had really taken Kid's words to heart, about watching this prodigy shoot skeet. 

"Last but certainly not least," Kid's father announced, "Takashi Koutarou. Come on up, boy. Show them how it's done." 

Koutarou gave a visible gulp, and walked into the stand. He was small for his age; though he was shooting with the middle school division, he still had a gun with a custom stock, shortened for his arms. He loaded it with steady fingers, pale face, and said, "Can I see the target once?"

The puller pushed the button, releasing the pigeons. Two clay disks flew out, one arcing high overhead, the other zipping right across the horizon in the opposite direction. From inside the stand, Koutarou studied them intently, memorizing their trajectories until the second one smashed into the ground, and then the first one followed suit.

Then Koutarou nodded and steadied his grip on the gun, holding it near hip level. 

"Pull!" he shouted, thin voice rising, and again the targets flew out. Koutarou swung his shotgun up, pulled the trigger, and then aimed at the one overhead, and pulled the trigger again. The first pigeon blew into pieces. The second one flew by unscathed, traced the same arc as before, and cracked back into the earth. 

There was a long, disappointed silence. Kid could taste it in his mouth, bitter like ash. To have such high hopes planted on his shoulders, only to let them fall and shatter—skeet had never been his sport, but he could imagine all too well. 

"Well," said his father neutrally—looking, for some reason, straight at Kid. "These things happen. Off you go, folks, best of luck at the next station." 

The competitors shuffled to grab their things. A few of them patted Koutarou on the back as they trailed off. For a moment Kid thought his father might try to come have a word with him, but he left as well, with the puller, taking the opportunity to snatch a quick break before the next batch arrived. 

Kid would have gone too, but Hiruma stopped him again.

"Hey," he said. "Let's try it."

Drawing himself out of fragmented thoughts, Kid studied Hiruma with skepticism. "You ever shot skeet before?"

"I've shot all kinds of shit before," Hiruma said blithely, going to the puller's station and finding the many-buttoned switch box dangling from its wire. "What do you push to make the fucking frisbees come out?"

Kid sighed. "They're called pigeons." As soon as he got close, he was handed the shotgun from Hiruma's shoulder, and closed his hands on it automatically. The weight of the barrel was familiar as it settled into his palms, both a comfort and a visceral reminder of all too many pre-competition nerves, post-competition regrets. "There's a couple different targets set up at this station. The one Koutarou just did was F2." He pointed at the button, so of course Hiruma just went ahead and jabbed it. 

Again, the two targets flew out. This time, with a gun in his hands, Kid tracked them with an almost predatory fixation. He was sure he could— No, there was no sense being cocky. Koutarou was young, but he was the most talented shooter in his division. Kid hadn't done this in years. 

"Even I know you're not supposed to shoot them from here," Hiruma prompted.

Somehow, Kid allowed himself to be goaded into the stand, which looked out into a sunny crest of hill, framed on either side by brush and feathery tree branches. He rested the muzzle of his gun on the stand as he loaded two shells from the dwindling box, and closed the action with a sharp clack. He'd forgotten how satisfying it felt in his hands, the tactile and auditory feedback of a well-made instrument, well prepared. 

"Warm up first, right? I'm going to push A."

"Don't do it until I call for it," Kid said. Did Hiruma really have no idea how this worked?

"Then fucking call for it already, fucking eyebrows!"

Kid exhaled a deep, deep breath. He refused to shoot a gun in any state but perfect calm. 

When he'd waited long enough, he said, "Pull," and a single pigeon flew, tracing a gentle arc overhead. 

Almost in slow motion, Kid caught the pigeon at the top of its arc, where it seemed to hang in the sky for an eternity, preparing to fall back down. When he pulled the trigger, the disk splintered into even pieces that went in all directions. He'd hit it dead in the center. 

Hiruma whistled, and Kid felt a strange warmth suffuse his limbs and face, pride and self-consciousness inextricably tangled. He was surprised how easily it all came back to him. 

"Fuck it," Hiruma said, "I'm skipping you right to D."

"They don't go in order of difficulty," Kid said, exasperated, pleased, unsure. But still he called, "Pull!"

It was another slow one, with a high arc, and Kid found it easily in his sights.

Just as he was about to pull the trigger, Hiruma abruptly said, "So I heard you were thinking about quitting football."

Kid stiffened, a flinch away from firing the shot, but managed to control himself. Carefully pulled his finger off the trigger, and lowered the gun, letting the pigeon break itself against the ground.

There was no question about it now. Hiruma was actively trying to throw him off. 

He waited a few seconds, and then said, "Again."

The same pigeon flew out, and this time Kid clipped it easily. 

It was only afterwards, clicking the action open, calmly dumping the spent, smoking shells into the provided bin, that he said, "Now, where would you have heard a thing like that? I've only told Tetsuma. You were just guessing."

Hiruma got in the stand with him, chuckling. "And now you've confirmed it. My turn, show me how to do it."

He should have sounded vulnerable, asking for help, but instead he was just pushy and demanding. Kid showed him how to brace the stock against his shoulder, sight down the muzzle, and felt a little foolish doing so. 

Surely Hiruma, of all people, knew how to fire a shotgun. 

But either he was self-taught, and had taught himself some bad habits, or he was purposely doing things the wrong way, gripping weirdly, elbow going up, arm tensing. 

Hand on Hiruma's arm, Kid pulled it down slightly, to a better angle. "Get it?" He looked up into Hiruma's face, just in time for Hiruma to lean over the stock of the gun and kiss him. 

Hiruma's hands were full, holding the weapon, and he had no leverage to apply pressure. It was a surprisingly chaste kiss, lip to warm, chapped lip, one that nonetheless blanked out Kid's normally hyperactive brain. All his careful analysis about why Hiruma was here, what he was after—all the analysis that Kid had promised himself he wouldn't even attempt—scattered like a clay target shot to bits, and he knew he would have to do it all over again, with this new piece added to the puzzle. 

It took Kid too long to muster the presence of mind to pull away, sputtering.

Hiruma's pursed lips split into his usual grin, but he didn't pursue his advantage, just said, "Musashi is starting a new football team. For the semi-pro league."

Kid shook his head, feeling like he was scrambling to catch up. He already knew he wasn't going to a university with a football team next year. What, was Hiruma telling him to join up with Musashi?

"Now that you finally got some fire in you, be a fucking shame to let it go out," Hiruma added. "What do I say, pull?"

It was easier than trying to make sense of the rest of it. Numbly, Kid walked out to the puller's station, and pushed the button for A. He realized suddenly that he should have protested the kiss. Told Hiruma not to do it again. Something like that. The way he'd left it, Hiruma would think it had been welcome—

Hiruma blew the target out of the sky, and then D as well. He dumped his empty shells into the bucket too, and said, "You know what bothers me, you fucking eyebrows?"

"What?" Somehow, Kid had the presence of mind to remember that the box of shells in the stand was empty, and grabbed another one from the stack on his way over. 

"I never managed to get one over on you. You're the only person who's ever seen through all my plays, and now you're going to go and do something fucking idiotic like quit football. Who am I supposed to compete against?"

Kid tore open the fresh box, attempting to absorb this new complaint. "So... you thought you'd take up skeet instead?"

"Don't be stupid." Hiruma handed the shotgun over. "I have more interesting targets in mind than some fucking frisbees. You ready for F2?"

The one Koutarou had missed. All of a sudden, the thought of the poor boy, the acrid taste of failure, both felt incredibly distant. Kid's fingers were tingling, his entire body was tingling for no reason. He slotted the two shells, and snapped the action shut. 

"Ready," he said, and he absolutely was. "Pull!"

The two pigeons flew out, one overhead, one straight across. Kid hit the straight one first, and then swung his muzzle up for the overhead. Only after he'd taken the second shot did the two of them shatter, in quick succession midair.

"Thought so," said Hiruma, with satisfaction. 

"This one's tricky." Kid dumped the empty casings and turned, expecting to hand the gun back to Hiruma, maybe give him a few tips.

Instead, there was only his father standing behind him, looking at him with surprise.


End file.
